Sunday morning violence in jodhpur bazar. for our afternoon repast. A chicken, a kilo and two hundred grams neatly dressed, still warm when handed to me in a polythene carry bag. 66.50 but the obliging salesman was happy with 65. I’ll keep going back to him. While taking the balance I saw that he had washed his hands, he must be washing them every time a bird is sold. There is a certain kind of guilt in spilt blood, no matter where it belongs. I was wondering, its cold now, his hands must be getting pretty numb by the time he’s done. Inside the dingy abattoir in one corner the entrails and feathers of the flightless are gathered to be disbursed amongst the lower animals at the close of business. Is nutrition a grim business, is cuisine a brutal art.
These are obviously gratuitous and useless observations. Happens every time im sent to fetch meat. My mental make up I conclude is very thin and weak. Nausea forbids violence. For me at least.